


The Agent, The Executive, The Hunter and His Lover

by JoJo



Series: The 2011 Give Me A Pairing Meme [1]
Category: Supernatural, The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, M/M, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, Memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/pseuds/JoJo
Summary: Dean dreams he's a big shot in a shiny office - and there's also a dude in Armani with a badge.





	

**Author's Note:**

> From a meme courtesy of kayim on livejournal back in 2011, which then became a little story. 
> 
> Give me a pairing and I will tell you:
> 
> 1\. What they most commonly do during sex  
> 2\. Who has prettier hair  
> 3\. What they argue about most often  
> 4\. Who'd cope best if the other one died  
> 5\. The happiest plausible happily-ever-after I can think of for them.
> 
> The pairing suggestion of Dean/Ezra was from tpena19

_1\. What they most commonly do during sex_

In this recurring dream Dean has, he’s in bed with a guy. Holy crap… a guy! At first he thinks maybe it’s something that got planted in his head downstairs, but by the end of the second time he realizes the dream is just too good. And really, nothing to get his panties in a bunch over, because he isn’t even quite himself in the dream, but someone else -- some big shot in a shiny office, for freak’s sake, with Wall Street suspenders, a sharp suit and… gym membership? Strange, though. There are echoes of reality and memory in the dream that are really quite unnerving. The dude he always ends up in bed with has a badge and a big gun, pretty eyes the color of the sea and an accent that makes Dean smirk. Along with the federal agent paraphernalia, he wears Armani and dimples. Damn fine suit, Dream Dean always thinks. They meet in a casino two blocks from the office, are kissing one another breathless in a mirrored elevator in no time at all, then take turns fucking each other in a luxury hotel room. And hell but the sex is good. It’s blissful, dirty, mind-blowing… both ways. Yeah, just fantasy sex, Dean tells himself. But somehow, it isn’t. 

_2\. Who has prettier hair_

They don’t seem to notice stuff like one another’s hair – not enough to actually comment on it. Why waste a good fantasy dream talking about shit like that? Even though the federal agent dude’s hair, rumpled by Dean’s own fingers and burnished by mountain sunshine coming in through the hotel drapes, is a sight to behold. Awesome, Dean thinks when he wakes up, because once he’s back in the real world he wouldn’t say stuff like ‘a sight to behold’. Obviously.

_3\. What they argue about most often_

One of the reasons Dean loves these dreams so much (apart from the mind-blowing sex and those mountains he sees out of the hotel room window) is that they do, in fact, argue the fuck out of everything, every time they meet. The dude with the accent has, like… opinions. On every damn topic you can name. Son-of-a-bitch doesn’t believe in ghosts or demons, for a start – which is yet another reason that Dean can’t fall asleep fast enough some nights

_4\. Who'd cope best if the other one died._

An element of danger lurks around Armani dude, something that presses Dean’s protective buttons hard, makes him anxious. He lives in fear of arriving at the casino and discovering something’s happened. A bullet. A federal sting gone wrong. Dream demons.

_5\. The happiest plausible happily-ever-after I can think of for them._

They could actually be happy, that’s the thing about dreams. In fact, they already are, even though by the time he wakes up Dean can’t even remember the guy’s name. Only that it’s something really frigging weird. Sam’s just glad when his brother wakes up with such a damn beautiful smile on his face. For him that’s its own happy ending, right there.

*

But then one day, while slouched over an overpriced breakfast in a diner on Curtis Street in Denver, Colorado, Dean just happens to look up and out of the window.

His hand freezes halfway to his cup and a light sweat breaks out under his collar.

Not possible.

Armani dude just came out of a store across the road, cellphone clamped to one ear. He's standing on the sidewalk with his sharp jacket flapping open in the breeze, classy shirt hugging his ribs, one hand on his hip.

"Damn fine suit," Dean finds himself saying. His voice is all dry and hitched and his gut is twitching with unaccountable nerves.

"Huh?" Sam says, barely lifting his head from the laptop.

"Gimme a moment, Sammy."

Then Dean's up and out of the diner door, dodging traffic and pedestrians. When he reaches the other side, Armani dude has his back to him, his posture tense. There's a fine set of shoulders under that suit jacket, Dean remembers.

"...ah assure you, Mr. Larabee," the dude's saying in a huffy tone. "I am on my way."

The accent turns Dean's insides to warm slop. He imagines the breath of it over his chest and his nipples tighten against his shirt.

Armani dude snaps off the cell, turns quickly. He's not the kind of guy you can creep up on. Dean knows he packs a shiny, federal-issue pistol under that expensive cloth.

They dude's brows go up in surprise. There's a moment of stunned silence and then a dimpled smile breaks out. Dean sees the gold tooth flash and feels a thrum of delicious familiarity. He smiles back.

"Well hello..." drawls Armani dude. It's a tone of lazy wonder, honey-sweet and full of recognition. His eyes travel down Dean's clothes and he knits those fine brows for a second. The merest tip of tongue appears between his lips and then is gone.

Dean swallows hard.

"Ezra."

He recalls the name now, can hear his own gruff voice panting it out against sweat-slick skin.

The image hangs between them.

"I have to work," Ezra says quietly in the end.

"Shit." Dean puffs out his chest. "So do I."

Ezra grins at that, stretches out a hand.

"Later then?"

Dean takes hold, smirking sightly at the ring he's scoffed at countless times. He jerks his head down the street.

"Casino. Nine o'clock." It was always nine o'clock.

Ezra's sea-green eyes glint. Then his cell rings again and he frowns mightily. Giving Dean's hand a hard squeeze he releases it and fishes instead for the phone.

"I'll see you at the tables," he says firmly and then stiffens. "No, Mr. Larabee, not you. And I told you, I'll be with y'all shortly."

Dean moves off, eyes straying back over the busy street to the diner. The shadow of the Ritz-Carlton looms above, glass sparkling in the mountain sunshine. Damn, the view from those top floor windows...

"Room 1222," he mutters.

Ezra doesn't stop talking, but he raises his hand and tips an imaginary hat.


End file.
